Curiosity Never Killed the Gryffindor
by Tempestt Londyn
Summary: It was awfully late when she found him in the library ... in the restricted section.


**_Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series is not my original work; thus, I profit from nothing. The following is strictly for entertainment purposes._**

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_**September 2011**_

Door closing behind her, Minerva McGonagall risked a step on the library's hard, echo-prone wooden floor. All had been well, not five hours ago. Pupils returned from Hogsmeade, their cherub faces smeared by chocolate and peppermint syrup. Dinner was quiet – no, controlled. There had been no food fights to end, no Exploding Snaps to confiscate, no hell on wheels Poltergeist to banish from the Great Hall.

It had been foolish to believe controversy would not spring before she bid the weekend farewell: not when the always raucous chatter was subdued and Minerva could, for the first time in ages, savor her Shepherd's Pie; not when last week's meeting with the Board of Governors was such a success; not when last week had seen no deducted House points, no handed down detentions and no hospital wing running over with hexed students.

How Albus endured it all those years she would never know. Minerva had been asleep in her quarters when the caretaker roused her, banging so barbarically she would not have thought it strange for those at Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to be shaken.

"A _student _is out of bed, Headmistress! I saw it in the _corridor_!"

_The _corridor. A seven-story castle and this was how he pinpointed the location. Argus Filch was more haggard, grey and unshaven than ever but his fervor for student punishment remained at a fever pitch. He bounced on either foot anxiously as she considered him stroking that beast – no, sweet feline – of a cat, Mrs. Norris. The poor soul was being squeezed in anticipation so badly Minerva feared her eyes would soon fall onto her desk thus putting an end to her inexplicable longevity.

Falling into her chair, the Headmistress rubbed her temples. If not so agitated, she might have realized asking the straggly, yellow toothed man why he refrained from apprehending the child himself the logical thing do. For all she knew, he or she could have already made it back to the common room. Still, Filch was a man of a certain age and she was in no mood to give a review of what caretakers' duties were, and had been, since the founders' time.

A description of the child, the second most logical course of action.

"Freaky little thing, ma'am." He pressed, when the Sorting Hat's chuckle was all that tore through the silence. "Changed its eyes and ears up fast, didn't it? Didn't know I was watching it, see – ma'am?"

Were a shred of magical talent in his body, she'd swear he was a Legilimens. The elderly witch was halfway out of her office, hair loose and dressing gown wrapped around her, before remembering her company.

"That'll be all, thank you, Mr. Filch!"

The Head Boy and Head Girl smiled and nodded as she passed. Faux, the duo and their gestures which were nothing except cover-ups for the pity which decorated their faces as she briskly approached. _Look how far poor McGonagall has fallen,_ said somber, exchanged glances. She sensed them, out of the corners of her eyes, while inspecting each classroom within striking distance. _I remember when she used to be so dignified and carried herself with so much class. The professor I know would never be seen in such a disheveled state. Might be time to pass the torch …_

Little did they know the sanest, youthful person would not be keen on making an adventure out of trailing a wild Metamorphagus.

At long last, Minerva's hand reached for the rope separating the main library from its restricted section. But she hesitated to move, once it had been pulled. Cursing herself for eavesdropping on such an intimate moment, she wished to Disapparate, to go back to sleep and to convince herself none of this was real – she felt like a child, intruding.

Minerva was grateful to be alone with the boy. She was grateful no colleague could bear witness to her disloyal knees weakening and giving way.

Perched over a large, thick book in the dimly lit aisle sat Teddy Lupin, eyes focused and intent, scanning the crisp pages. Only after an eternity of scrutiny passed did his head lift, amber eyes shimmering with tears.

"I just couldn't wait any longer, Professor McGonagall."

One glance at the cognac, leather binding, and her heart dropped to her stomach.

_The anthology …._

Minerva had been against it.

She had been so _vehemently _opposed to the proposition that 'writings' from the second war should be among the library's contents. And to call it an _anthology_ – to glorify the sadistic messages of Lord Voldemort's followers and sympathizers was disrespectful to the memories of all those lost. Hate speech, to her, hardly needed remembrance.

"Showering braggadocious recollections of murder, torture and disfigurement, as well as pro-pureblood propaganda, with the same pomp and circumstance one gave poetry and plays is shameful!" She argued.

"That is not the goal at all, Headmistress." Minister Shacklebolt had replied, a faint smile crossing his lips before his former Head of House. "We regard these as …. artifacts of war, if you will. The Ministry's raids of Death Eater, Snatcher and known, non-combative supporters' homes resulted in the confiscation of these documents in addition to dark objects. I trust you also know post-sentencing Veritaserum was given to culprits so that we might speak directly and receive responses for transcription which we otherwise might not have. The anthology is our history, a means of vigilance … this must not happen again."

All objection died. And because of her compromise, a thirteen-year-old boy now stared at a picture of his wicked great aunt, absorbing explicit details of the importance of 'pruning' the family tree.

Minerva should've put an end to this. _This_ ... was indecent. His grandmother obviously felt the boy was not yet ready for the cold, hard truth about war and, quite literally, family demons.

She was endorsing it.

Minerva was _endorsing it_. Her speechlessness, her immobility told this child it was fine to break school rules, perfectly acceptable to barge into one of the most dangerous places on school grounds and face no repercussions.

Right now, the book should've been pried away.

Teddy Lupin's boldness warranted a month's detention, if not a suspension.

She mustered satisfactory grit for neither.

Magenta spikes replaced black waves as Minerva cleared her throat.

"100 points from Gryffindor, Mr. Lupin."

Why postpone today what he'd only do tomorrow?

_**Fin.**_


End file.
